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Fragrant. It's the first thing Akechi thought of when he met Akira, shook his hand. Fragrant, with a shadow of something sly at the corner of his lip, in the gleam behind his eyes.
He smelled like coffee, of course; that made sense, being that he spent so much time at Leblanc, ran slender fingers through different types of coffee beans on a near daily basis. But he also had the lingering scent of flowers clinging to him, almost like an afterthought.
That's what Akira was to him, for awhile. An afterthought. He had his suspicions, sure, but he was suspicious of damn near everyone most of the time. So he watched. And he waited. Hanging out at Leblanc became a routine, watching Akira Kurusu move deft behind the counter a hobby, and it was nice to be so invisible there, so unknown.
Not that Akira ignored him by any means.
The first time Akira greeted him with “Honey, I'm home,” Akechi near snapped at him out of irritation. How smug could the guy be? And the grin that accompanied his words, like he knew very well the effect they would have. Akechi himself couldn't have known, couldn't have expected the tightness in his chest. Who in his whole life had ever greeted him like that?
It wasn't the only time. It became routine for Akira to call him 'honey' before long.
“How was your day, honey? More coffee, honey? Why the long face, honey?”
Akechi played it off, responded like Akira's words weren't anything special, weren't anything to react to. But the burning rage that coiled in his stomach told him otherwise. He wanted to punch the grin off of Akira's face, wrap his gloved hands around that slender throat and squeeze until the glimmer left his eyes. Instead, Akechi settled for squeezing his fingers tightly around his coffee mug and smiling his friendliest, most earnest smile.
“I killed someone today,” he never said, even when it was true. “I dreamt of killing you.” This he did say, once, just to gauge the response it would evoke.
Akira paused a moment, a fraction of a second, but that was all. He continued moving behind the counter, preparing this and that for the following day, and said, offhandedly, “Oh, really?”
Akechi laughed, claimed it was a just a joke. Said he'd dread to dream something so violent. Feared it, even. But considering he was a junior detective, sometimes the nightmares came regardless of what he did to stave them off.
Ah. A confession. A mistake.
He cleared his throat and lowered his face, sipped his coffee, prayed Akira hadn't been paying attention. No such luck. When he peeked up from beneath his bangs, there was Akira, leaning against the counter, staring at him with eyes so black they'd swallow the light of stars. His unique fragrance wafted off of him, filling Akechi's personal space, making him dizzy with...with what? He was hard pressed to say. He didn't like it, that was for sure.
He shifted uncomfortably, reached for his bag, made some excuse as to why he had to get home. Akira reached out and grabbed his hand. Akechi stared at it, anger bubbling up inside of him, disgusted at the mere idea of there being contact between them. Akira's hand, warm even through Akechi's glove, held him so gently, so comfortingly, Akechi had to bite back a gag. He didn't want this.
He didn't deserve this.
Akechi pulled his hand away and rushed out the door.
One day, he told himself. One day soon, he'd be rid of Akira Kurusu for good. Then he wouldn't have to worry about what Akira did to him, the way he made him sway on his feet. He attributed his physical reactions to strong feelings of hatred, because that was easier than the alternative. He couldn't bear the alternative.
The next time he saw Akira was at the train station, where he approached him out of habit. Only when his feet were already carrying him to the other boy did he realize it was a mistake, that he was still angry about being touched. It was too late to turn back, though, not without being incredibly awkward. So he smiled, greeted Akira as civilly as possible.
Yet again, Akira took his hand, this time to shake it.
“Hello,” said the boy in glasses, grip firm, eyes locked on Akechi's eyes.
The floor fell out from underneath him. His heart leapt into his throat. Millions of other cliches body-slammed him all at once, and he understood the distinct feeling of every single one of them. That “hello” wasn't innocent in the least, was so loaded with something, it made Akechi's skin crawl. It made his breath hitch. It made his hands shake.
He pulled his hand away before Akira could feel him trembling. He only just stopped himself from wrapping his arms around his torso, as if that would stop all of the sudden emotions whirling inside of him from spilling out in a catastrophic maelstrom.
“Well,” said Akechi, scrambling for words, scrambling for purchase, scrambling for the upper hand. He couldn't find it. There was nothing to hold onto. He was falling free. “Well,” he tried again. He nodded, once, ducked his head, and quickly shuffled away.
He hated Akira Kurusu, he told himself, over and over and over again. He hated him. He hated him with all his aching heart.